


half awake in a fake empire

by visionary_shimmer



Series: there are a thousand [2]
Category: Pundit & Broadcast Journalist RPF (US), Real News RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visionary_shimmer/pseuds/visionary_shimmer
Summary: another city, another late night.
Relationships: Jake Tapper/Original Female Character(s), Jake Tapper/Reader
Series: there are a thousand [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199837
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	half awake in a fake empire

**Author's Note:**

> Did I write another ~5,000 words and manage to only mention their careers in the vaguest way possible? Yes bc I’m lazy and I have no idea how a news program works behind the scenes. I hope the dialogue comes across as banter rather than everyone just being assholes to each other. Sam is kind of moody, Susan is obnoxious, and fictional!Jake is having a mid-life crisis. *marie kondo voice* I love mess!

What happens after you and your boss discuss sleeping with each other? Not as much as you might think. Not right away. Of course, the first time you cross paths on Monday, Jake’s eyes widen and he stiffens for a second, but he recovers quickly- a quick nod of recognition at you, a sip from his ever-present coffee mug, and he continues speaking with his producer like nothing’s happened. You're still on edge when you take your seat a few chairs down from him at the news meeting, but he seems collected and focused, which is reassuring, and before long you lose yourself in the hurried pace of the work day.

In the weeks that follow, you find a rhythm with each other. You’re measured and careful in your interactions, but you were never that friendly before, so you don’t think any of your coworkers have registered a difference. Meetings in his office are usually avoided but if necessary they’re brief, to the point, and the door stays open. Overall it’s a relief to find that your performance, the atmosphere at work, those things don’t seem to have sustained any significant damage. 

Still, if you’re honest, there’s a feeling of anticipation thrumming in the back of your mind like a distant idling engine. You’d expected what happened between you to weigh on you like a secret. Instead, there’s a lightness, like you’re suspended in air waiting for gravity to kick in. You’d agreed there was a line you wouldn’t cross. Whether there was harm in venturing right up to it, that would remain to be seen. 

It’s a beautiful spring evening in New York, the kind where the sun seems reluctant to set and the city glows with a certain energy and freshness even at the close of the day. You’re unable to enjoy it, though, because you’re confined to the opulent but dark Grand Ballroom of Gotham Hall, where your former coworker Martin and his new wife Lena have just exchanged vows. There are worse places to be, sure, but it’s a shame to miss out on the nice weather, and the whole being single at a wedding thing is kind of a drag, something to be endured rather than enjoyed. You’re not above admitting that if you’re going to be dateless, you need to at least look hot- but not like you’re trying too hard. Alex has lent you one of those flimsy floral print things that every Millennial girl is wearing to weddings this summer. Whatever, deduct some points for originality. The important thing is that it looks good on you. 

The wedding is a sort of reunion for your former colleagues. Susan’s there, and she’s dateless as well. It’s no surprise that the two of you are sat at the same table. You’ve already gotten through dinner, toasts, and a couple glasses of wine when she abruptly mentions, “So I saw Jake today. We did lunch with the team.”

“Oh. He’s here for the book thing,” you reply vaguely. You hadn’t considered the possibility that they’d cross paths today. He’d mentioned in passing that he had a speaking engagement at Columbia this weekend, arranged by their journalism department to promote the new book. You hadn’t told him you’d be in the city too because, well, why bother? You have a tacit agreement to avoid each other, after all.

You’re watching Martin and Lena have their first dance to a tasteful if boring song, performed by a lavishly large wedding band. You take a gulp of wine, somewhat bigger than you intended, and force it down. “Wait, you’re just bringing that up now?”

“I wanted to get a read on you first. What did you do to the poor man?”

You frown, feign obliviousness. “Sorry?”

She leans in closer. “Sam, don’t play dumb. I could tell there was something going on that night in DC. You should have seen his reaction when I said I was going to see you here. You know when he looks like a sad dog?”

“That’s just his face,” you point out.

“I mean more so than usual. Like, stricken. And surprised. You didn’t tell him you were coming here, seeing me- why not?”

“I don’t know. it’s nothing. I only came out that night so I could catch up with you- a decision I’m now regretting.” 

She’s not convinced. “Sure, don’t tell me anything. Don’t let me have any fun. So it’s ok if I told him to come to the after party tonight, right?”  
  
“He wouldn’t. I’m sure he has a million other things to do and people to see.”

“Of course he would. He’s staying close by and half the people here work in media. And Lena’s uncle is a Dartmouth alum, they do some fundraising shit together.” 

“Huh.” What kind of insane coincidence, you think, and then remember that he’s just that ridiculously well-connected and notable a person.

“I’m gonna be honest with you,” she continues. “I think he needs to get laid. I can read the sexual frustration from a mile away. Not that any of it’s directed at me- which, he doesn’t know what he’s missing- but I’ll live.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, now,” you respond dryly, hoping to appear indifferent and unimpressed. Normally you find her frankness amusing, but it’s getting under your skin tonight. 

“And don’t look at me like that,” she says. “Your generation is so puritanical, I swear.”

You change the subject. “Speaking of that night in DC, where’s Mort?”

She rolls her eyes. “We’re not going there.”

Incredibly, Jake does show up to the after party. You’re sitting in a booth at the hotel bar with your old coworkers and some sort of craft cocktail that’s going down far too easily when he walks in, alone, because he’s Jake Tapper and he can do that sort of thing. You almost resent him for it. Isn’t that just like a powerful man to be able to go places alone and expect to be noticed rather than ignored, admired rather than scrutinized? But then he sees you from across the room and grins, and there’s such a disarming sincerity to it that you feel your face flush. 

Susan’s sitting at the end, next to you. When she spots Jake she waves him over and introduces him to the table. There’s no spare seat nearby so she tells him to take hers, says she was just getting up anyways and she’ll bring him a drink. He’s wearing a suit but has foregone a tie, and the top couple buttons of his dress shirt are undone, exposing his throat. He swallows in a moment of hesitation before he responds. “Perfect, thanks.”

You’re pretty sure Susan’s planned out this seating arrangement- like we’re in middle school, you think. And yet the undeniable thrill of a certain person sitting next to you, does that ever really go away? It's tight; it’s impossible not to touch him. You’re all too aware that if you turned to look at each other directly, your faces would be inches apart. Instead, he tilts his head towards you, looks at you askance.

“We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” he jokes.

You fiddle with your cocktail napkin. “You mean with Susan around? Yeah, a little goes a long way with her.” It comes out a little harsher than you intended.

“Aw, she’s not so bad.” 

“You must not know her that well. How was the Columbia thing?”

“Good. Decent Q and A at the end. My throat got really dry while I was reading an excerpt from the book, though. I came very close to pulling a Marco Rubio.”

“Sounds like you need that drink.”

“Oh, I’ve already had a couple thanks to some generous Columbia journalism faculty.” He clasps his hands together in his lap, the fabric of his suit straining slightly around his upper arms. “You know, you didn’t tell me you were going to be here.”

You steal a glance at his face. There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, the type where the corners of his mouth go down instead of up. “Oh, sorry, I--” 

His smile widens. “It’s ok.”

Just then the bride and groom are dragged over by Susan, where introductions and congratulations are made. If asked, your former coworkers would swear they were unfazed by Jake’s celebrity, but when all you know of him is his stern anchor persona, his good-natured sense of humor and charisma can make an impression. You’ve seen it happen several times now. Martin asks you what he’s like to work for, which is about as dumb a question as you’d expect from a drunken, elated but tired groom at his wedding after party.

Jake holds his hand up to stop you before you reply. “Let me answer for her. Insufferable. On a total ego trip.” 

Martin looks at you. “Sam?”

“I wouldn’t dream of contradicting him.”

You’re playing off each other, and it’s an act, but it’s fun to put it on with him. There’s an energy between you, and it has to go somewhere, so you channel it into some sort of long-suffering staffer and their oblivious, self-obsessed boss routine. Before long, however, the conversation splinters off. It’s too loud in the bar to sustain a table-wide conversation for very long. You’re grateful that the focus is off the both of you for a moment. You reach under the table to smooth your dress and your elbow bumps Jake’s. He shifts slightly in his seat. Every time he moves you can smell his cologne, and you wonder if it’s possible that that’s going to your head more than any drink you’ve consumed this evening.

Soon he gets up to talk to some other acquaintances, as well as that uncle of Lena’s. He’s at the bar chatting animatedly with them while you’ve been cornered by Portia, an opinionated editor who’s maybe had too much to drink. As she holds forth about one of her authors, you allow yourself to observe him for a moment, now that there’s some distance between you. He talks persuasively with his hands, carries himself with a confidence and ease honed from years of being on camera. His hair is unstyled- messier, somewhat wavier, you notice. You wonder if it would feel differently between your fingers as opposed to last time.

“So I told him, if you’re not getting anywhere with Jenny’s stuff, maybe it’s not _for_ you, you know? You want something plot-driven, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” Portia says, gesticulating dramatically with her cocktail. Her husband catches her arm and gently lowers it to the table to avoid spillage.

“Right,” you reply distractedly.

She narrows her eyes. “Everything OK?” 

You’re not really sure. Jake’s already stated that he doesn’t want to pursue anything with you. Which you get. So that must mean he’s not here for you, right? At this point, you don’t think anybody will notice or mind if you leave. It’s late. 

“I’m just tired. I might do an Irish exit and head up to my room. Would that be, like, inexcusably rude?”

“Whatever, we’ll probably do the same soon. See you at brunch?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you assure her, though you know you’ll probably end up sitting next to Martin’s great aunt or something, nursing your hangover with a Bloody Mary and some limp scrambled eggs, and to be honest you’re not really looking forward to it.

You’re in the lobby waiting for the elevator, contemplating whether this wedding has made you lonely enough to text your ex, when someone calls your name. You’re surprised to see it’s Jake walking out towards you, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. You realize it’s probably bad form to leave without saying goodbye to your boss.

You’re about to apologize for doing just that, make a show of how tired you are, but he speaks first. “I’m told there’s a rooftop bar here. Apparently it’s top ten for best views of the city. Want to check it out?”

You blink a couple times, caught off guard. “It’s kind of late.”

“Coming from the person that once called us DC people amateurs? I’m shocked.”

His eyes shine with a surprising amount of energy given the lateness of the hour. The fact that he’s casually referenced that night in February, something he’s carefully avoided up until tonight, makes your stomach flip, but you play along. “That remark really got to you, huh? How’d you make it this far as a journalist with such thin skin?”

He puts a hand to his chest as if injured, laughs. “Thin skin? Not at all. I did take it as a personal challenge though.”

Again it feels good to joke with him, to thaw whatever coldness had formed between you. He’s practically beaming at you, holding his eyes level with yours which somehow makes you more aware of the rest of your body- the not-looking he’s doing. You wonder what he thinks of your dress, if he checked you out while your back was turned. You really shouldn’t be thinking about these things. 

“What do you say?” He continues. “Fresh air, if I remember correctly, that’s kind of your thing, right? Even when it’s snowing out?”

In any case, you’re not as tired as you thought anymore.

You share the elevator with a somewhat drunk older couple. They appear to be wedding guests you’re not acquainted with, strike you as out-of-towners. The wife whispers in her husband’s ear, and he grumbles. She turns to Jake. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you look _just_ like that man from the news.” 

“CNN, she means,” adds her husband.

She nods earnestly. “Chris Cuomo, is that it?”

“You know, I get that all the time,” Jake responds agreeably, without missing a beat. “Personally I don’t see it, but there must be a resemblance.” He casts a sidelong glance at you.

The woman seems satisfied with his answer, gives her spouse a look that says _I-told-you-so_. “It’s uncanny, really.”

The husband clears his throat. “I don’t see it either. That guy’s too serious. Seems like he’s got a stick up his ass. No offense.”

“Why would I be offended?” Jake asks in mock innocence just as they get off on their floor and bid you both goodnight. As soon as they’re gone you share a laugh like you’ve gotten away with something. He leans against the rail. “I’m really not sure if I should take offense or not. Did they get the name wrong? The face? Is it me or Chris who’s too serious?” 

“Oh, they definitely recognized your face. They just mixed up the name.”

“What makes you so sure?”

You suppress a giggle. “The stick-up-the-ass expression confirmed it for me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wow. You know, we’ve spent all of five minutes together and you’ve managed to insult me multiple times. I’m impressed.”

Normally when people get off the elevator, whoever’s remaining spreads out to fill the available space. It’s like a law of physics or chemistry or something that everyone, save those on the most intimate of terms with one another, follows. So you can’t help but notice that you’ve instead drawn closer, turned towards each other. You could touch his hand if you wanted. Nobody would see.

You don’t do it, of course. You continue playing this game, joking with each other in a facsimile of a healthy workplace friendship. 

“I’m just trying to keep you humble,” you assure him.

“Thank you, Sam.”

It’s surprisingly quiet on the rooftop, with guests scattered here and there. You’re both leaning against the railing, sipping a couple of beers and checking out the view. It’s a nice one, brightly lit Manhattan rising up in all directions around you, but the air has an evening chill to it that goes right through your thin dress. Goosebumps appear on your arms, and to your surprise he takes off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The fine wool has a pleasant weight to it, the silk lining feels smooth on your skin, and it’s warmed by him; it smells like him- cedar and something clean, maybe a hint of citrus. It feels like a markedly intimate gesture, but he does it so casually, so maybe not. Maybe he’d do it for anyone. 

In any case, he doesn’t say anything further about that night in February. Instead you talk about the office, the week ahead, this guest you’ve booked and that piece that still needs some work. You talk about the tv adaptation of his first book and the tour for the new one. You ask about his speaking engagement, which he downplays again. 

The false modesty isn’t fooling you. You’ve seen him at these kinds of events, it’s obvious he loves the interaction and performance of it all, finds the physical presence of an audience energizing, like an actor doing a play vs. a film. He would hate for you to think he’s full of himself, of course, but there’s a certain quality that’s part of his appeal and success. Call it what you want- self-regard, confidence. You’d probably just call it cockiness, but not in a bad way. It’s admittedly attractive. Perhaps because it’s only one facet of his personality. Perhaps because unlike a lot of men, it’s earned.

The more you talk, though, the more you can’t ignore the curiously mixed messages here. He’s asked you to accompany him, you’re wearing his jacket, you’re conversing like work spouses, and you’re not sure what all of that is supposed to mean.

“Can I ask you something?” You blurt out.

He shoots you an interview look- eyes intently focused on you, the space between his brows creased. “Yes.”

“Why did you ask me to come up here?”

His expression softens. “Honestly? I saw you get up to leave, and you looked kind of down, or something, so...” he trails off, shrugs his shoulders.

“So you what, took pity on me?” You try to say it lightly, but you’re annoyed by his answer, embarrassed, even. Was it that obvious?

He touches your arm gently, strokes it, almost. “Pity’s hardly the term I would use.” He hesitates for a moment, then takes a step closer. “I admire you, Sam. I think that’s clear.”

Something in the air changes, just a little, when he says that. He doesn’t let go of your arm. It’s a touch that’s meant to console, but it feels like it’s burning. “Maybe you’ve confused admiration with attraction,” you say. “If that’s still there.”

Surprise flits across his face at your boldness. “I haven’t. And it _is_ still there.” He leans in, his voice soft. “The attraction. Though I’m trying very hard to pretend that it’s not. Because nothing good can come of it.” 

But the last sentence he speaks lacks conviction; for a moment his eyes search yours as if it could be found there. 

Nearby a woman laughs loudly, and he drops your arm. “We should go back down there.”

You slip his suit jacket from your shoulders and hand it back to him, another intimacy you’ve shared. It’s like ever since that day in his office, you can’t stop yourselves from seeking it in whatever form you can. “Well, I’m staying here.” You tell him. “I think I’ll just call it a night.”

You wait for the elevator with him in an awkward silence. Instead of diffusing the tension between you, the abrupt ending to your conversation seems only to have heightened it. He rolls his neck from one side to the other restlessly. You fold your arms, look down at your shoes. You’re sure someone else will walk over and wait, but no one does. 

The doors slide open, you step in and once again find yourselves alone, but somehow it’s different than last time. The sedate ambient music that’s piped through the speakers feels loud in your ears, and finding your floor number on the control panel seems to take all of your concentration.

“Can you?” he says in a low voice, and points in your direction. 

“What?” You ask stupidly. 

Your heart has started beating faster, and you have this funny feeling like when the doors close there might not be enough air in the elevator.

“The button,” he mumbles, and reaches across you to press the one for the lobby just as the doors are closing. The breath sort of catches in your throat, and he looks down over his shoulder at you, arm still extended, and you don’t know why exactly but you grab his wrist, no rational thought behind it, pure impulse, and it’s almost like he understands what’s going on before you do because he doesn’t hesitate- he brings his left hand to your cheek, and kisses you. 

Tentatively at first, because it’s a question he’s putting to you- _I know it’s a bad idea but what if we did it anyway because I feel like I might die if we don’t_?- and you don’t waste any time because really the doors could open again at any moment and you want more, you want his lips on yours again, his hands on your body, and you’ve grasped the lapels of his jacket to pull him even closer and he’s pushing you against the wall with his hips, fuck if it isn’t even better than you remembered to be kissed by him. He manages to get a few words out: “You sure you want this?” “Yes,” you breathe. The elevator dings and you break apart; he runs a hand through his disheveled hair. And it’s landed at your floor, so there’s nothing left to do now but take him to your room.

You’re careful with one another, at first. Jake lays his jacket on a chair, stands at a distance while you switch on the lamp, place your room key and clutch on the desk. You lean back against it, watch as he rolls up his sleeves deliberately, your eyes tracing the veins on his forearms. He looks you over in turn, an expression of open desire on his face as he surveys the lines of your body- the cling of your dress, the curve of its neckline. It’s a lot, being on the receiving end of his stare. There's an unbearable feeling of anticipation and yet you're suddenly shy, so you do what any journalist would and put the other person on defense. “Why did you lie to those people in the elevator?” You ask, gently teasing. “You’re so honest usually.”

He squints. “I didn’t lie, I just didn’t correct them.” He moves in close to you, his height all the more pronounced since you’ve kicked off your heels. 

“Misled them, then.” You look up at him. “Have you lost all of your scruples tonight?”

“What can I say? I was eyefucking a girl half my age,” he confesses as he pushes the left strap of your dress down with his fingers. He’s so close, his breath is warm on your skin. “I didn’t want them to know who I was.”

You lean into his touch. “That was not eyefucking. You were barely looking at me.”

He cups your jaw, runs his thumb over your lips. “If you only knew what I was thinking, though.”

“You are kind of sexually frustrated, aren’t you?”

He lifts his chin, looks down his nose at you- haughty, appraising. “And what are you going to do about it?”

“Whatever you want,” you say softly as you reach down and palm the hardness in his dress pants, and he leans forward to kiss you rougher and more deeply than before, presses himself against you.

He gets you out of your dress and into bed. You’re not wearing the most extravagant set of lingerie you own, just a smooth, sheer mesh bra and underwear, but he seems transfixed by the sight of you in it nonetheless. “Fucking perfect,” he murmurs as he strokes first your exposed skin, then what’s covered by the sheer fabric, and then that rapidly becomes not enough either, so he deftly unclasps your bra, and together you shove your underwear down because the touch of his hands and lips is making you too warm, impatient, and judging by the urgency in his movements he’s feeling the same.

He runs a hand up your thigh and then slips his fingers between your legs- he exhales when he finds you’re already wet for him; of course you are. There’s a firmness to his touch that you expected and a finesse that’s a surprise. This is what you wanted, when you felt so light that you might float away or disappear, you needed him to anchor you, hold you in place for a moment. And he does that so well. Only here, only now matters as he moves down your body, spreads your legs further and then his mouth is between them, hot, insistent, his hands gripping your hips. The way he uses his tongue has you immediately biting your lip to keep quiet and fuck, the fact that it’s him doing this to you when you both know he should not be- the way it’s kind of a game you’ve played with each other and yet it’s not that at all, it’s something true, it has weight and seriousness- makes it overwhelmingly hot if you’re honest.

He makes you come with his mouth, quickly and with devastating precision, and now you’re aching even more to have him inside you. You ask if he can please fuck you now. He lets out of a huff of breath and says god, yes. He sinks into you; fills you so deeply. You fit together so well. You begin to move with him, raking your fingers through his hair. “You like that?” He asks hoarsely. “Yeah,” you whisper- you like everything, everything he’s doing, everything about him. And just as he said would happen, just as he always gets what he wants because he’s not ashamed of his desires, he speaks them aloud and makes them real, he makes you come again- fast and hard- with his fingers in your mouth, you hadn’t realized you were making noise until he does it. But as he fucks you through it he changes his mind, removes his fingers because he wants to hear you whine, and that’s what does him in, the sound of it.

He doesn’t stay long. Before he goes he sits at the edge of your bed, and studies you. “Do you regret this?” He asks.

You speak to each other in questions, you realize. There’s a relentless curiosity that you share. His seems to have been successfully channeled into his career, while yours bleeds into all aspects of your life, keeps you restless, always looking for something new. This can’t happen again, but you already know it will, because beyond the mutual attraction and affinity is the consuming desire to _know_. You need to know what he’s thinking and what he wants from you and what he’ll do to you next time, and he needs all of these things from you, too. 

“What do you want me to say?” You respond.

He gives you a pointed look. “The truth, obviously.”

“I don’t.”

He kisses you with a tenderness that’s new, but all he says is: “Ok.”

Later, you’ll try to sleep, but you won’t be able to. You’ll wrap yourself in the hotel robe, sit in the window, lean your forehead against the cool glass to watch the taxis sliding silently down the avenue and into the night, and you’ll hear your phone vibrate. It will be a text, from Jake, the first one he’s ever sent to you, though he’s had your number since you started like everyone else at the office. 

It will say, “I don’t either.”

**Author's Note:**

> I’m on twitter @nevercursed_ & tumblr (sideblog) @jakestan
> 
> Title comes from the song “Fake Empire” by the National, though a more fitting soundtrack is maybe girl in red’s “bad idea,” for obvious reasons.
> 
> Special thanks to those who were kind enough to give me ideas and feedback!


End file.
